


Tea Time

by wrathwritesthings (leviathan_wrath)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Awkward Ravus, Dom!Ravus, Established Relationship, F/M, Kinda, NSFW, One Shot, Oral Sex, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 03:58:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11981676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leviathan_wrath/pseuds/wrathwritesthings
Summary: Ravus lavishes you with attention on your birthday.





	Tea Time

**Author's Note:**

> This was requested on tumblr. The request reads: _My birthday is on April 4th, shortly after Gladio's own birthday and I wanna be spoiled. Can I have Ravus spoiling his Fem!s/o on her birthday if you know what I mean ;)?_
> 
> Now, this isn’t your average, every day snarky little shit reader coming from me. This is specifically a certain special someone’s f!reader. It's loosely based off of the requester's OC who has a history with Ravus that I touch on in this one-shot. Anyway, I'm already sorry for posting this.
> 
>  **Warnings:** NSFW, Awkward Ravus, Vanilla Smut, It’s Just Straight Up Oral, Kinda Dom!Ravus, Awkward  & Dom?, Yeah You Read these Lame-Ass Warnings Correctly, OOC Galore, Reference to Past Sex Between Two Consenting Minors, Intense Tense Flippage, It’s Just Garbage, I’m So Sorry, AU

**Tea Time**

You two have always had tea precisely at 12:15 p.m., on the dot, every Tuesday and Thursday for the past few months. You always arrive exactly at 12:00 p.m. and you can always count on him to be at the café five minutes before you- no more, no less. He’ll have already placed the order, although the workers already know what you two want at this point: One pot of earl grey brewed with lavender to be served with a small pot of warmed milk and a few sugar cubes on the side.

Ravus will put two sugar cubes and a healthy splash of milk in his tea when you inevitably have to respond to an email for work. And you’ll pretend not to notice that the Niflheim commander likes his tea absurdly sweet. You’ll pretend that he hasn’t done this _exact same thing_ since you knew him back when he was a teenager, back when he was a prince, back before Tenebrae had fallen….

It’s all very regimented, is the point. Which is why when you _don’t_ show up at exactly 12:00 p.m., on the dot, on a Tuesday, Ravus starts to get a little nervous.

Fingers itch to send a text: “ _Are you well?”_

No, no. That’s too invasive. He quickly backspaces and retypes his message to something more appropriately… well, appropriate. You two have been catching up these past few months since you reconnected and it would be presumptuous of him to assume he can be so familiar with you. Though, he’d secretly love nothing more than to get back to how things were before… He clears his head and carefully types out a message:

“ _Are you busy?”_

Absolutely not. The commander sighs and shakes his head to himself, pursing his lips and quickly swiping his silvery hair out of his face with one hand as he deletes the words with the other. He doesn’t want to seem _needy_. You’re not even _that_ late. Besides, if something _did_ come up, you would have told him. Ravus tucks his phone away and sips his tea.

The carefully wrapped box that he has expertly hidden under the lacy tablecloth of your preferred table (the one in the back of the café, far enough from both the front entrance and the toilets, right next to a window that provides you with the perfect view for people watching) feels like a ticking time-bomb now. This is his first time buying you a birthday present _in years_. It’s your first birthday with him _in years_.

What if your tastes have changed? So far, over these past few months, he hasn’t noticed any _drastic_ change in you as a person, so even if he gave you the worst gift on the planet he knows you won’t bat an eye and that you’ll accept it with that kind smile of yours… Which somehow makes it all _worse_. Because he’ll have given you utter rubbish and you’ll be stuck with a smile. The commander feels like he might be ill.

Then again, it might be because he’s already burned through all the sugar cubes and the entire pot of warm milk. A waiter comes over to replenish the sugary sides but Ravus brushes the balding man away with a quick wave. He keeps himself composed even as the clock strikes 12:20 p.m. He stays composed even as the waitstaff start sweating bullets, exchanging looks. He’s composed when cold tea touches his tongue at 1:00 p.m. 

Ravus is the picture of cool indifference even as he finishes an entire pot of ice cold tea on his own (without anymore milk or sugar) by the time the clock in the café marks the half hour. He finally caves and sends: 

_“_ _(y/n). Are you coming?”_

There’s no response ten minutes later. He’s _completely_ composed in a suit of _pure_ _sweat_. Little does he know you’ve basically been sprinting here since the clock struck 1:00. There’s a flash of color in front of the glass door of the cozy café, the bell chimes loudly, and the waitstaff let out a collective (but quiet) sigh of relief, since the commander’s silent anxiety was absolutely contagious.

You’re a frazzled mess but you hide it well. Your friends and coworkers had surprised you with a party right before your lunch break and it carried over well past any reasonable office party’s time frame. It was mostly an excuse for everyone to get cake-drunk in the middle of the day and it took some fancy talking (and the name _Ravus Nox Fleuret_ leaving your mouth) for your boss to allow you to leave early for the day.

And then? Well… the crowded streets didn’t make getting to the remote café any easier. Usually you enjoy the brisk walk to the fancy little tea shop that’s rather distal to the bustling city center. But today? On a tea day with _Ravus_? You found yourself internally cursing every slow walker and each retail worker who tried to stop you to get you to try some product. Couldn’t they see you were in a rush? You were in a dead sprint, for crying out loud!

You’re about to apologize and tell Ravus about the whole ordeal and complain about the surprisingly crowded streets, but you stop yourself. If there’s one thing you know about the commander, it’s that he _hates_ excuses. He always has. And you don’t want to risk ticking him off after leaving him here without any notice for over an hour.

You recompose yourself just as he stands and comes around the table to pull your chair out for you. Tense and sweaty, you sit. The small circular table is immediately cleared of the empty tea pot (you hide a wince) and the waiter quickly pops back up with a fresh pot of tea just as the commander takes his seat. You quietly thank the waiter before turning your gaze onto Ravus. A delicate cough clears your dry throat for you to ask, “How are you?”

It’s your usual conversation starter. At first, when you started meeting Ravus for these little tea times, you quickly thought you would get tired of them. You two had known each other well before he became a commander for _Niflheim_ and you’d had a surprisingly easy relationship before you were forced to part ways. He was your best friend and you two had been rather intimate before everything went to hell.

So when you bumped into each other years later? All of these feelings came rushing back to you. Though you knew he had been through a lot- same as you- you had wanted to resume the relationship. It had been the best you’d ever had but you’d restrained yourself because, well, perhaps you were looking back with nostalgia goggles and _a lot_ can change in a few years. And apparently a lot had.

He was so reserved, so cold when you crossed paths again. You were shocked to hear he was the _Supreme Commander of the Imperial Army_ … In fact, you’d fought off the urge to smack him over the head when he’d told you, to grab him by the shoulders and scream in his face for kowtowing to the people who had taken everything from him _and_ from you. But you didn’t. You often pride yourself on how cool and collected you can be.

But _he_ was the one who suggested the whole tea affair that very quickly turned into a tea tradition. You had been ready to say goodbye again after hearing of his new rank, after trying and failing to adjust to this standoffish version of the kind young man you’d known back in Tenebrae. But he had _asked_ …

In the beginning, every time you two met it was like it was scripted. You would say, “How are you?” and he would reply, “Fine, thank you. And you, (y/n)?” looking at you intensely, hands folded politely on the table. He would pour you your tea before pouring his own. Then you would have a mostly one-sided conversation that left you feeling exhausted.

After the first time, you almost refused his offer to meet again that Thursday. You felt like Wednesday wouldn’t give you enough time to recuperate mentally- it was like you had been interrogated even though he’d barely spoken more than ten words. But there was something in the way he _asked_ … Those purple and blue eyes were almost imploring, posture rigid as if ready for rejection. You’d begrudgingly said yes, damning your continued susceptibility to the commander’s secret weapon after all these years: _Puppy eyes_.

But then, after the fifth week of tea hell, something happened. Ravus started _responding_ to your polite conversation (which was basically you spilling your guts for a whole hour, like a therapy session with a stone wall that drank imported tea). The commander began giving you more than prim hums and the occasional monotone “I see.” He started to _reciprocate_. And soon, you found yourself talking him through his days. It was like those years apart never even happened. He never used to be so damn slow to warm.

You found out which soldiers he couldn’t stand, how he worried about his sister, and all manner of irritants (both trivial and major) that he was going through. You’d give advice, take advice; tell a joke, receive a cringey, stilted joke in return (which you _forced_ yourself to laugh at since Ravus always looked secretly pleased with himself for coming up with such “zingers”); accidentally bump your hand against his, have him purposefully grazing his fingertips slowly over your knuckles in kind.

This is the routine. This is the little dance that you two have rehearsed for months.

So… When he doesn’t even _respond_? When he just stares at you, from the sweat on your brow to the wrinkles in your clothes, before leaning down and to the side with his eyes still trained on you? You’re a nervous wreck. Not like you think he’s going to _hurt_ you or anything. It’s just… the lack of routine with someone who has _always_ been so routine with you is a little unsettling. You’re about to ask what he’s doing when Ravus places a small, perfectly wrapped box on the table and commands, “Open it.”

If you thought you were cooling down from your little run, you’re back to sweating like mad. Ravus isn’t the type to give thoughtless gifts. Though it was never a competition, you always felt that he outdid you in the gifting game. The silver-haired man was always strange in that respect: awkward and yet incredibly intuitive. You eye the silver wrapping paper and the shimmery, glittery ribbon and remark, “You remembered my birthday.”

“Of course I did.”

There’s just a hint of offense there, a fine line forming between his eyebrows at the insinuation that he would’ve forgotten the day. He’s always been the surprisingly sentimental sort- the type to celebrate such abstract things as a “one week anniversary” and an “anniversary of your first kiss.” In reality, you really shouldn’t be so surprised. But with how _slowly_ things have been progressing between you two…

Ravus waits with bated breath. Eyes are fixated on the way you gently tug the ribbon free before carefully running your index finger under the seam of the paper to snap the tape loose. Wrapping paper is folded away and the little black velvet box is opened to reveal a silver sylleblossom charm encrusted with sapphires hanging from a chain that almost looks too delicate. 

You can’t fight the wide grin that crosses your face as you breathe, “It’s lovely, Ravus. Thank you.”

He can’t meet your eye. “Shall I put it on you?”

“Of course,” you reply immediately, without a second thought. Heart races as he comes around the table to stand behind you. The necklace is removed from the box and Ravus begins to _try_ to work the clasp. The sylleblossom rests lightly on your sternum, cold against your skin. Now that he isn’t directly in front of you (now that he can’t turn you to stone with a look) you decide to say what’s been on your mind for a while now.

You steady your voice and ask, “Are things back to normal between us?”

His fingers falter at the clasp. “In what way?”

“In _every_ way,” you’re starting to grow a bit irritated at how aloof he is. “We used to be close. I know we’re getting to know each other all over again and I don’t want to seem too pushy, but I feel like that’s already happened, Ravus. We were dating before-”

“Haven’t these visits been dates, (y/n)?”

Oh, no… He thought these tense tea times have been dates _this entire time_? You don’t know if you should laugh or groan at his naïveté. You almost wish Luna was here to give her brother that signature look of hers that was basically the Oracle’s version of a completely non-physical smack on the back of the head. You always wished you could replicate that look.

To at least _seem_ somewhat casual, you take your cup of tea in your hands, ignoring how the liquid trembles. You watch, brooding, as he returns to his seat. His face is nothing but an impassive mask. You know he’s putting on airs. All these years, all these changes in him, and you can _still_ read him like a book.

Instead of telling him off like you so desperately want to, you snap, “You just called them _visits_ , Ravus. I do a very similar thing with an older coworker of mine- I _visit_ her for tea on Sundays. At this point, she and I are dating as much as we are. Except maybe I’m ‘dating’ her in the more traditional sense. I get more physical affection out of that old woman in the form of hand-pats than anything I’ve got from you.”

He looks like you just slapped him across the face.

“Well then,” the former prince clears his throat with a restrained sort of cough, “if you’ve been so _displeased_ with our afternoon tea, why don’t we go to your apartment for a bit more privacy if you can spare me an hour?”

“My apartment? Why do-” You can feel heat creeping up your neck at a languid pace when you see how dark his eyes have gone. The blush is stifled by an indifferent shrug and a positively impassive, “All right. Fine. I have the rest of the day off for my birthday, anyway. And I _highly doubt_ you’ll need me the _whole_ hour.”

“It’s your birthday?” The waiter seems to pop up out of nowhere to ask excitedly and you nearly send your cup of tea flying across the small café. “I’ll get the chef to bake a-”

“Leave us,” Ravus orders, eyes still fixed on you, face stony at your jab.

The walk to your apartment seems shorter than it usually is. It might have something to do with the way the crowds seem to part for the commander. You almost beg strangers to stand in your way as your heart threatens to rip out of your chest. You’re sixteen all over again. When you two first agreed to do this with each other after a year of dating, him stammering “A-Are you sure… with _me_?” and you struggling not to be so nervous because he was already nervous enough for the both of you and you didn’t want to seem _overeager_ to your blushing boyfriend, it had honestly been a mess. 

It wasn’t romantic or spur-of-the-moment in the slightest.

You two had compared schedules, tried to find a time where you were both free (“How long does it usually take? I’m free Sunday afternoon.” “I’ve never done it before, (y/n). An hour, perhaps?” “I… heard from a friend that sometimes it’s more like a few minutes, Ravus…” “ _Minutes_?”) and a private place to do the deed (“Not my place. Someone is always home.” “I live in a _manor_ , (y/n). The walls have eyes and ears.” “Wow. Were you _trying_ to sound like a snob?”).

It took a few days for the stars to align perfectly for you two to get some alone time together. And at that point, you felt like the whole world knew what you were up to. His bedroom seemed like a stage when you entered it on that cool Saturday morning. The lie was that you were “studying,” so you had a bag teeming with way too many books to sell that lie. Ravus was jumpy and anxious- you swear he checked the door to make sure it was locked at least ten times. But then a coolness suddenly descended upon him as you were putting your heavy bag on the floor by his desk.

The prince had just watched you, eyes half-lidded, reclined on a chair, and ordered, “Undress.”

You’d spun around on him and scoffed, “I beg your _pardon_?”

 _That_ had yanked the rug out from under the grandstanding prince. His composure was shattered like it was made of glass and your words were pure iron. Back then, he hadn’t been so cold. He was kind and gentle-hearted, which made his attempt at dominance all the more jarring. It wasn’t that you were _upset_ when he’d ordered you to undress (in truth, his command had sent a strange thrill up your spine). You were shocked. And laughter quickly followed.

Death from embarrassment seemed like a very real possibility for him in that moment. He’d turned so red, looked like he was trying to melt into his chair as you covered your mouth with your hands and laughed so hard that you almost cried. And you’re taken back to your first time with Ravus when the commander, twelve years removed from his easily-flustered youth, orders exactly that same thing the second you lock the door to your apartment.

The blush that stains your cheeks easily undermines the exaggerated way that you roll your eyes. “Oh, _please_ , Ravus. Don’t tell me you think just because you command an _army_ that you can order _me_ around. Besides, we just got inside. At least let me put away my purse before you start demanding things of me.”

When he doesn’t immediately respond, you turn around to find him staring at the tiled floor. It would seem that some things never actually change. Teeth capture your bottom lip as you struggle to refrain from laughing and doing a play-by-play of your first time together. “Give me a moment,” you say, a bit gentler. Eyes flicker to the doorway of your bedroom and you gesture toward it. “My room is right there. Make yourself comfortable.”

Once the silver-haired man is in your room, you allow yourself to silently freak out. When you’d expressed your frustration with him, you didn’t _mean_ to force his hand. It’s just that… he’s been increasingly _teasing_ as of late. Lingering touches, eyes flickering down to your lips, innuendo that nearly made you choke to death on tea more than once… Everything has been slowly, _torturously_ building up to this. And yet you feel like a deer in the headlights- _felt_ like one when he so boldly invited himself to your little apartment after your unkind words.

You take a moment to center yourself, to beat away the blush that sears your face and neck, before slipping off your shoes and putting your purse down on the kitchen counter. When you push open the door, you’re surprised to find the commander at your vanity. There’s an old picture of you two there, taped to the mirror, and you slowly close your eyes and internally curse yourself and your damn nostalgia.  

You clear your throat loudly to get his attention and say boldly, “I don’t have any condoms, Ravus, so we might as well just have a quick lunch and you can be on your way.”

You’re giving him an out.

“That’s perfectly fine, (y/n). A condom won’t be necessary today but I will be certain to come prepared next time.”

Well, it would seem that he actually _does_ want to do this and didn’t just feel compelled to due to your teasi- Wait. _Next time_? You’d been hoping to fluster him with your bold words but he’s so blasé about it. However… you know him well. The slight movement of his throat as he nervously swallows, the almost imperceptible kiss of pink on his cheeks like this is all happening for the first time.

“Oh?” You silently curse yourself when your voice comes out unnaturally high. You cross your arms and cock your head. “You sound pretty confident that there will _be_ a next time.”

The cool façade slips for just a moment when the commander laments with his typical serious frown, eyes hooded, “I apologize for being presumptuous.”

That earns a chuckle from you. His eyebrows knit together as you shake your head and laugh, “Okay, even though it’s _my_ birthday, I’ll play along from here on out since you _clearly_ have something up your sleeve, Ravus.”

“Play along?”

“I didn’t let you be domineering all those years ago, so now’s your chance. Go ahead and resolve that issue,” you tease.

It feels as though he stares at you for a century. Nerves start to get the best of you and you begin tugging at the bottom of your blazer just as he responds, “Undress.”

Is he _trying_ to make you laugh? Because you honestly might. That simple command holds much more meaning to you than the average person, especially coming from _Ravus_. But you bite the inside of your cheek and nod your head obediently, playing along with the commander’s little fantasy that he’s had since he was a teenager of bossing around stubborn (y/n) and having you _actually listen_.

You’re a bundle of nerves as you pull off your blazer and peel your dress from your body. You’re honestly far too nervous to make a show of it, not that Ravus minds since he enjoys the sight all the same. Hands shake a bit under Ravus’ intense gaze, eyes watching your every move, burning the little show into his memory for later. Panties are shimmied off and your bra is dropped into the clothes that are pooled around your feet.

And you wait.

And wait.

Irritated, you snap, “Well-”

“Sit on the edge of your bed.” He gives you a flat look and adds, “And _don’t_ make a sound.”

That authoritative edge to his voice has that old thrill running up and down your spine and you do as you’re told, trying not to look too eager. The usually soft sheets feel rough against your bare, hyper-sensitive skin. Again, you wait for a century before the next command is given. The bastard seems to enjoy making you sweat. He looks down his nose at you and drawls, “Spread your knees.”

A hot blush rushes into your cheeks but you follow his order. You’re very much aware of how exposed you are, the cool air hitting your heat. Sunlight streams into the room from the window at your back, giving your naked body a halo-effect to the silver-haired commander. He’s fully dressed (much to your disappointment) as he crouches down between your knees. He looks at you confidently, the light from the window almost turning his hair golden before he swoops down to gently kiss the inside of your left thigh, close to your knee.

Tension quickly melts away as he peppers the insides of your thighs with fervent, wet little kisses, slowly making his way up, up, up. Heart stutters the higher he goes. The feeling of his hot breath makes your eyelids flutter and you bite down on your lip, struggling not to make a sound. It’s _painful_ not to whine when he completely avoids the part of you that begs for attention just to move to your hips. 

You’re so busy marveling over how well he plays the role of the domineering lover (despite how the tips of his ears are so damn red and the way you can feel his hand tremble on your knee) that you don’t have time to prepare yourself for that dangerous tongue of his. You choke back a gasp to stay obedient, barely stopping yourself from instinctively jerking away the moment Ravus’ slick, hot tongue gives a long, languid lick up your slit, savoring the taste of you, humming his enjoyment.

Slapping a hand over your mouth, you screw your eyes shut and bite back a moan when he firmly grabs your legs and rests your thighs on his shoulders so your lower body can meet his eager mouth. The wet sounds his mouth makes as he eats you out are downright lewd but you find yourself growing more and more aroused with every second. Broad, penetrating strokes are offset by flicks of the tip of his tongue over your already hyper-sensitive clit. He slides in and out, curls his tongue, sucks your clit, teases mercilessly at a slow, steady pace. Whenever his tongue goes inside of you, his thumb is there to apply pressure to your clit, calluses adding friction. 

It’s enough to drive you insane. 

The feeling of his breath ghosting against your exposed lower half causes you to clench your jaw. Pressure gradually builds in your abdomen, you’ve broken out in cold sweat, hands fisted in the sheets on the bed, but you refuse to make a single sound- refuse to be disobedient. One hand has slowly crawled up to grope your breasts, tweaking your nipples and palming clumsily at your flesh. You’re too intoxicated with the feeling of his tongue moving in and out of you to care about his lack of finesse elsewhere. Your orgasm is already coiling low in your gut, insides fluttering around Ravus’ tongue, blood buzzing and ears filling with the sound of your pounding heart.

Those intense eyes look up at you from between your thighs and Ravus replaces his tongue with his fingers, pounding them into you and crooking them long enough to allow him to rasp out, “Say my name as you come.”

If you weren’t close before, the moment that wicked tongue plunges back into you and Ravus moans long and low, sending vibrations shooting through your core, you’re shoved head first over the edge. You don’t even know if you manage to say his name when you unravel at breakneck speed. But tomorrow, on your way out to work, you’re pretty sure you did because your neighbor downright _refuses_ to look you in the eye.

It takes an embarrassing amount of time for you to be able to think clearly after coming down from that high. Or talk. Or breathe. And in the time that it takes for you to recuperate, Ravus has released your poor thighs and stood back up. “You were right, (y/n). The whole hour _wasn’t_ needed. I only needed you for a few minutes,” Ravus finally snaps back, licking the remaining moisture from his lips, and you could _die_. 

Despite his little barb (which, honestly, you don’t even need to _look_ at him to know he’s pleased with his severely delayed comeback), the commander gently pulls you further up on your bed so that you can lie down more comfortably and then covers you with a blanket before he makes for the door.

“W-Wait. Where are you going?” You ask, surprised by his sudden departure. 

Ravus gives you a genuinely remorseful look and explains, “I apologize but I don’t have much time, (y/n). I’m running late as it is…”

“Oh.” You look away uncomfortably, still feeling like your legs are made of jelly.

He hesitates and comes back to stand by your side to query, “Are we still having tea on Thursday? I wouldn’t want to _bore_ you.”

Heat sears your cheeks as you stammer, unable to make eye contact, “O-Of course.”

There’s a firm pressure on your temple as he gives you a goodbye kiss, fingers brushing against the sylleblossom on your chest. The sounds of his footsteps against the tile halt and the commander turns to look at you over his shoulder before he leaves your room. A ghost of a smile crosses his lips and he murmurs, “Oh, and happy birthday, (y/n).”


End file.
